The Black Pearl
by cagedphoenix
Summary: James Dawley (a.k.a. Jack Sparrow) had almost nothing in common with William Turner. Except, of course, that they both wanted to kill the same man.
1. Jack of the Sparrow

Disclaimer: I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean or anything related to it.  
  
Summary: This is the story of how Jack became Jack. . .and why.  
  
Chapter 1: Jack of the Sparrow  
  
James Dawley stared at the small ship on the horizon, his heart going out to the little Princess Sarah. How he wished he could be on her, sailing over the deep blue waves, now rough, holding the life of a hundred men in her every move, now gentle, lapping against the ship softly, lulling the watch to sleep. But always powerful. Without even a thought, the ocean could crush a man and hide his body forever, or she could just as easily waft that same man to shore so he could be saved. Yes, mused James, the ocean was the most powerful thing in the world. Now there was a power he wouldn't mind bowing to. No, he wouldn't mind bowing to her at all. She did, after all, already hold his utmost respect.  
James's thoughts turned sour as he rounded the corner and arrived at his destination, the office where he worked at. Now this was a power he would have loathed to acknowledge, much less grovel before. But grovel he would, if he wanted to stay anywhere near the ocean.  
James walked into the building where he worked as a clerk during the summer. His heart sunk heavily further with every reluctant step hetook, his shoes clicking discordantly on the marble floor. He exchanged a few pleasantries with the receptionist on the way to his office, marvelling at the older man's unreasonable joy and positive outlook on life. Then again, mused James, the old man probably didn't have to deal constantly with his father's harsh, undisguised disapproval. James shuddered at the thought of his father, then squared his shoulders and walked on as he noticed some people watching him oddly. It would not do for the eldest son of Lord Paul Dawley to be seen in such a black mood, he thought with chagrin. Whatever would the people say?  
James finally reached his personal office and stepped inside. He looked around it meticulously, honestly surprised that his father was not in attendance. Young James quite expected his father to walk in any second and express his heartfelt disappointment and disapproval at his son's successive tardiness and blatant disreguard for the sacred rules...& etc. This encounter happened almost every day, and it often left James feeling sick and exhausted. How many more days would he have to endure of this? The same routine, day after day, with nothing to alleviate the boredom, nothing to shock him awake from this dulled state of complacency. James sighed and looked at the stack of papers in front of him. He had much work to do, and he might as well get started. There was no sense in musing over something he couldn't change. ~*~*~  
James yawned and stood up, slowly stretching his arms out. He noticed the hour was late and grimaced. He was beginning to become as attached to his work as his father was. He walked back home slowly that night, reluctant to reenter the oppressive atmosphere that perpetually haunted the Dawley mansion.  
The large clock in the hallway was ringing out the ninth hour when James finally arreved at his home. He was cornered in the hallway by a family servant who removed James's had and coat and informed James of his mother's wish to dine with him that night. James laughed at the servant's surprised face when James waved him away, strolling leisurely up the stairs to his room. He slowly changed and refreshed himself, sitting in front of the fire for a while to contemplate the day's happenins-or lack of.  
When he decided his mother had waited long enough, James strolled back downstairs at a snail's pace, grimacing when he heard the distant strains of a cello coming from his mother's sitting room. While Augusta Dawley "picked" at the cello every so often, she often said that to be obsessively devoted to something was...  
"...a bit unhealthy, Sarah dear. As I often tell dear James, an obsession with anything is the last thing I could be convicted of." James's mother looked up as he entered, a fake smile plastered on her face. "James, darling, how nice of you to join us. I was just about to send Sarah to see if you'd fallen asleep from exhaustion. I do declare, James, you work far too hard. A young man like you shouldn't spend so much time slaving in his father's office, he should be out courting eligible young ladies. Now tell me, James, how is that nice young girl you saw the other day? Anabelle, I believe her name was."  
James spent the rest of the evening evading his mother's pointed queries. Dinner with his mother was just another ritual for James, another obstacle that guarded his path from freedom and independence. Three days a week he would dine with his fragile, selfish mother, and three days a week his mother would regale him with stories of fragile, selfish English girls that James should be interested in. All of the girls were sappy, superficial blonde girls, the daughters of the English rich and noble. The only worst thing than talking to them for long amounts of time was having to talk to his mother about them for long amounts of time. James leaned his head back and mentally sighed. He was sick of all these rituals. ~*~*~  
James walked on the wooden dock and let the wind whip his hair across his face. He had untied his queue so his hair could be free, at least for a little while. He wondered if, maybe, one day he would be able to untie his hair and let the wind play with it while he stood at the wheel of his ship, a successful merchant. It would be heaven on earth if he could. . .for it would mean that he would finally be free, and he would finally live on the sea. He would be able to hear the waves lapping against the side of a ship, his ship, as soon as he got up in the morning. The sounds of the ocean would lull him to sleep, a soothing lullaby to his ears. Perhaps he would even by then have found a woman, an intelligent woman, willing to spend her life with him on the sea. And every day, after retiring to his quarters, he whisper in her ear and tell her what the ocean felt.  
James pulled himself out of the warm reverie with a snap, silently berating himself for wasting so much time on a useless daydream. He would be late again this morning, and his father would no doubt have something to say about it. He turned around quickly with every intention of going to work, only to stop when he saw a girl walking towards him, trying to catch her loose pet sparrow. James stooped, grabbed the sparrow, and whirled around to give it to the girl...only to bump into her with his arm.  
"Oh sir! You quite startled me!" exclaimed the girl sharply.  
James stopped in the middle of a muttered apology when he looked up at the young woman in front of him. Brown-haired, brown-eyed, and modestly attired in a trim red dress, she was at once the picture of propriety and yet the most beautiful creature Jack had ever seen. He caught himself staring at her and quickly bent to pick up her parasol, which she had dropped when he had walked into her. He delivered it to her with a flourish, causing her to laugh and introduce herself as Mary Elizabeth Browning, a name James had often heard on his mother's lips at dinnertime.  
  
"And what might your name be, sir? No wait, let me guess. You must be James! Mr. Dawley's son! Your mother was kind enough to invite us over for supper next Friday. I've heard so much about you!" Mary looked up at him with adoring eyes, and smiled when James offered to escort her back to her house.  
"I would be much obliged. Oh, and thank you so much for catching my sparrow. It was most kind of you, Jack. You don't mind if I call you Jack, do you?"  
James told her that he did not mind it at all. After all, who could deny anything to a woman so charming as she?  
Mary giggled and grabbed his arm with one hand, holding her pet sparrow in the other. "Good! Then you shall be Jack Dawley, or, rather. . . you shall be my Jack of the Sparrow." 


	2. The Hardest Pain to Bear

Chapter Two: The Hardest Pain to Bear  
  
Mary and her father went to James's house that Friday night, and soon afterwards, James asked Mr. Browning for permission to court his daughter. Two years passed thus, and James was the happiest man on earth. His mother no longer nagged at him constantly, his father had elevated his status at the shipping company, and, above all this, he had Mary Elizabeth. It was true that she seemed completely unsuited as a partner for him, being in truth not much more than shallow, society-loving coquette. Coming from any other, her insipid remarks would have bored James, perhaps even causing him to be rude and short, but coming from his Mary Elizabeth, James deemed them to be words of wisdom fit to be ranked with those of Galileo and Aristotle.  
  
This idyllic existence was not meant to last, however. One day in the early winter of the year 1747, James walked to Mary Elizabeth's house, flowers in one hand, a small box in another, grave thoughts in his seventeen-year-old head. His mother was preparing a special dinner tonight, even though (or perhaps because) James had taken to dining with her regularly. Perhaps this, too, was because of Mary Elizabeth. Perhaps he did not so much mind his mother's petty faults and grievances because he saw them reflected in Mary's own frailty, insufficiency, and somewhat blatant insipidity.  
  
Of course Mary was no rude, coarse servant girl; she was quite the educated, cultured society girl with refined taste. Mary Elizabeth Browning could pour tea and play her cards as well as any of her contemporaries, but, like them, she could also hide what brains she had and chatter for hours about nothing whatsoever. James could not really understand why he loved her, or at least why he loved her so much; all he knew was that the emptier her comments became, the fuller his heart swelled. Maybe it was one of those insane cases in which opposites really do attract, and that with a passion, or maybe it was just that his mother's words had finally begun to influence him; whatever it was, James Arthur Dawley knew that he would sail to the edge of the world and jump off if it would bring a smile to his Mary Elizabeth's face.  
  
James gulped nervously. What he was about to do was far more frightening than jumping off the edge of the earth.  
  
The young man knocked on the door and was duly admitted by a servant. The maid, who was obviously a mulatto, suggested calling Mary, but James nodded his head nervously and said he would like to speak to her father instead; James and Mr. Browning had business to discuss.  
  
The young servant girl, who could not have been but a few years older than James, smiled knowingly and went to fetch the master of the house.  
  
James stayed in Mr. Browning's office for two long, grueling hours, but when he finally exited it he had a smile of immense relief and crazy joy on his face. He immediately headed toward the parlor, where he knew Mary Elizabeth would be working at her embroidery at that time.  
  
James opened the door slowly and with an extreme amount of care, in order to muffle its squeaking, and peeked inside the room. He smothered a little sigh of mingled joy and expectation, ducking quickly behind the door as Mary turned her head slightly.  
  
The object of James's affections was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, her embroidery in her lap, her eyes staring off into empty space. James grinned and tiptoed across the room silently-an amazing feat in itself due to his high-heeled shoes. He stood quietly behind Mary Elizabeth for a few minutes, trying to collect himself but being distracted by the girl in front of him. At long last he decided he was ready and, with a slight shudder of anticipation, placed his hand on Mary's shoulder.  
  
Mary Elizabeth started and turned around.  
  
"Jack!" she shrieked, giggling. "You tease! Why did you not send Martha to inform me you were here? I did not expect you today!"  
  
Jack buried his face in her hair, muttering something about a surprise. He then knelt beside her, snaked his right arm around her neck, and, with the flat, rectangular box in front of her, opened it with his left hand.  
  
Mary gasped; Jack took the diamond-studded pearl necklace out of the box and asked her if she liked it.  
  
"Like it? Jack, oh Jack! It's beautiful! But. . .why? New Year's is not for several months!"  
  
Jack said nothing, merely turned the necklace over and put it in her hands, with its inscription facing her.  
  
"For a beautiful lady, a beautiful betrothal gift."  
  
Mary looked up at Jack with wonder and he smiled and nodded his head. Mary Elizabeth smiled.  
  
The wedding was to be in April of the next year, which would give Mr. Browning and his daughter time to go to the colonies and see some new land which he had just been given; this, along with some land in England and money would form Mary Elizabeth's dowry.  
  
Four months after the Brownings set off on the Bonny Martha, James was sitting in his father's office, calmly discussing a partnership which, two years before, he would have thought impossible. James's eighteenth birthday was approaching, and his father thought that a partnership would be a fitting present, as well as a conciliatory gift to Mr. Browning, who was allowing his sixteen-year-old daughter to marry several years younger than was normal.  
  
James smiled as he thought of Mary. She was the love of his life, and he was just as willing now as he had been when he asked her to marry him, two months ago, to do anything for her. Heavens, he thought, chuckling inwardly, I would even become a pirate for her! James put his hand across his mouth to keep from laughing and ended up making a choking, gurgling sound. Mr. Dawley looked at his son, a concerned look on his face.  
  
"James, are you quite all right? Maybe you should step outside for a little air-you look a tad faint."  
  
James assented and stood up to go out. When he opened the door, however, a young assistant clerk, whom James had often seen working in the lower house, ran into him. "I beg your pardon, sir, but I have news of the Bonny Martha."  
  
James nodded and stepped back into the room, motioning the nervous clerk to sit down. The Bonny Martha was the ship that Mary Elizabeth and her father had set out on; it was also one of Mr. Dawley's ships.  
  
"What is it? Has she reached the Americas?" asked Mr. Dawley, impatient for both his and James's sake to hear about the ship.  
  
The boy, who could not have been more than fourteen, looked up nervously. "We-we just heard the news from the docks, s-sir. The Bonny Martha. . ." here the boy darted a nervous look at James. "the Bonny Martha was attacked by the pirate Rinnelli several weeks ago." James sat down in a chair, hard, as the words continued unmercifully. "The pirates killed all the gentlemen and shanghaied the crew. One of the male passengers jumped off-board before the ship was blown up and was picked up by a passing merchant vessel. He told them everything, even of how the women. . ."  
  
James looked up as the boy stopped. Jack Dawley's face was pale and his queue had come untied, letting his dark hair frame his face. He lowered his head into his hands, gritted his teeth, and murmured that the boy should continue.  
  
The boy gave James a sad, sympathetic glance before finishing. "The women were taken captive for the pirates's pleasure." 


End file.
